


035

by Sivvah



Category: SCP - Containment Breach, SCP Foundation
Genre: Gen, Horror, Interviews, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-07-16 04:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16078154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sivvah/pseuds/Sivvah
Summary: The daughter of the SCP Foundation's renown interviewer, Dr. Watch, finds the day she decides to follow in her father's rather risky footsteps. It's time for another long-due interview with SCP-035 after a long period in which mysterious, dangerous events led to a ban on human interactions with it.Things have calmed down now and there is no time to waste; everything is now on Alex Watch's shoulders to interview that creepy mask and make it out alive.*The SCP Foundation and its characters in this story, aside from Alex, do not belong to me; this is a creative fanfiction.





	1. Newbie

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored one day, and the result was this random and pretty short fanfiction. Depictions and personalities of characters are based off of the work of Tats TopVideos on YouTube.  
> I'll probably be updating chapters pretty slowly; this story isn't really at the top priority on my list of writing to work on. But—I hope you enjoy!

_ The SCP Foundation: Special Containment Procedures _

_ “Secure. Contain. Protect.” _

_ February _ _ 13, 2024 _

— 

 

“Wow,” Doctor Harp chuckled, “so Watch has a  _ daughter _ , huh? Didn’t see that coming.” He crossed his arms, amused. “How long have you known about the foundation, kid? You gonna work here now or what?” the scientist asked, half-jokingly.

I opened my mouth to answer—and my dad cut me off. “Yeah, uh, I try to keep this whole _family_ thing a secret to prevent people from asking too many questions—kind of like what’s happening right now—so I can keep ‘em nice and safe from harm and all that jazz. I’m sure you understand.” Watch smiled and patted me on the shoulder. I sensed the passive-aggressiveness he was directing at Doctor Harp and wondered what kind of relationship they had between them. 

“Oh, yeah, I got it, I got it,” Harp nodded. “Don’t worry. If anyone asks, you’re single and you live alone.” He wheezed out a laugh and slapped his knee. This guy sure was enjoying himself.

“Flattering,” Watch grunted.

Doctor Harp fixed his white lab coat and sighed. “Well, I had a night shift, so I’m out of here before the sun’s completely up. Can’t stay here any longer than you need to or you’ll go crazy, you know? Have a good one, you two.” He saluted my dad, who returned the gesture, and turned to leave. I heard him mutter as he walked away, “This coat is  _ way  _ uncomfortable. Must be the wrong size.” 

My dad looked at me. “Met your first scientist there, Alex. What do you think?”

“I guess he seems pretty chill for a someone who works in a place like this,” I remarked, gesturing around us.

“Yeah, well you got the right idea there. He’s the good one of the bunch. And by  _ bunch _ , I mean this entire place. Full of rotten apples...” He rubbed his forehead. “Can’t blame ‘em, though. Just be careful what you say to people around here, ‘kay?”

“Yeah. Don't worry; I understand, dad.”

He smiled, reassured, and patted my back. “Get your serious face on, now. We’re starting day one of your tour.”


	2. Before The Interview

_ The SCP Foundation: Special Containment Procedures _

_ “Secure. Contain. Protect.” _

_ September _ _ 30, 2024 _

 

        “This’ll be the first and  _only_ time you’ll ever go into SCP-035’s containment cell, so use your time wisely,” my dad warned.

        “Yeah, yeah,” I said.

        Normally, an individual was allowed inside SCP-035’s containment cell once per two-month intervals, and personnel working in the area had to rotate out every three weeks, but my dad was so protective of me that I wouldn’t be allowed any more contact after this. Ever, apparently.

        Years ago, SCP-035’s glass case had begun forming paragraphs of text in various languages using negative space in the black ooze that had also mysteriously begun appearing recently. There were attempts to translate the paragraphs, but all the personnel working with it eventually ended up committing suicide or going insane in one way or another, so the procedure had to be put on hold until SCP-148 was finally brought in to cover the cell walls, successfully blocking out SCP-035’s dangerous emitting waves from entering the outside atmosphere. It was all fine and dandy after that. Unfortunately, this caused a sort of greenhouse effect over time that made the entire room and its effects on personnel amplified and the whole thing had to be called off, translating and all. A lot of personnel died from that.

        Over the next year or so, things started to get ugly. SCP-035’s containment cell became so corrupt that nobody could enter it. The walls degraded and had to be replaced every single week, but that was a difficult task when the  _entire cell_ was  _covered_ in a layer of mysterious black blood—which was tested and discovered to be  _human_ blood from various subjects—with a corrosive pH of 4.5. The magnitude of SCP-035’s harmful telepathic waves also amplified so much that anyone exposed for more than half an hour would enter an inevitable psychosis. Communication with SCP-035 was banned and it was allowed no more hosts, not even inanimate mannequins or statues. There were a few other things that are too disturbing for me to disclose.

        So, finally, the foundation decided enough was enough and SCP-035 in a dormant state was moved using remote-controlled AI to a brand new containment cell and the old one was never used or spoken of again. Now, here I was , standing in front of the new, nice and fresh cell. Lucky me. I peered through the glass and I could only see the back of the small container where the mask must be sitting. Sitting, dormant and waiting.


	3. The D-Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has it been a while. Sorry for the long wait!  
> I know this is probably pretty crappiy put together. I hope you enjoy nonetheless!  
> Chapter 4, where we finally get to the actual interview, will be coming soon!

After a bit of silence, my dad clapped his hands together. “I don’t know what’s taking them so long to get the D-Class. I’ll go check in with the personnel. You two can stay here,” he told the cell guard and I, and jogged down the hallway.  
I watched him leave, and the word _D-Class_ was echoing in my head as the sound of his footsteps faded away. 

Think about the personnel system. The SCP Foundation is practically a mass slave trade—the foundation buys prisoners, usually people on death row (and even that could be a cover up for the fact that they probably take in innocent people when they run out of death row inmates), from prisons and takes them in to be tested on, sacrificed, whatever it is. Except the D-Class have no idea what’s going on until it’s too late. I tried not to question the morals too much, because there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s how the foundation works and our job is to protect humanity. But still, it gave me an uneasy, sort of guilty feeling. 

The guard broke me out of my thoughts. “Such a smart, young girl like you, voluntarily throwing your life away,” he spoke suddenly. “You do know that the second that door closes behind you, there’s a 45% chance you won’t come out alive? Statistically proven.”

“You do know that leaves a nice fat 55% chance that I  _ will _ come out alive? Mathematically proven.”

The guard was silent; he was probably rolling his eyes under that mask.

“Besides,” I sighed, “this world is a stupid place, and if there’s one badass way to die,, it’s at the hands of a supernatural serial killer mask from ancient Greece. Uh…  _ metaphorical _ hands.”

“Can’t argue with that.” 

Whatever, I was just spewing random crap. I didn’t give a damn about statistics, especially ones that don’t  _ mean _ anything. The statistics are based off all the morons who’d interacted with SCP-035 before, even the interviewers, who had  _ no  _ idea how to handle the thing. (Jesus, does  _ no one  _ know how to handle a thousands-year old mask of death? Shame on you all.) Of course they were gonna die. Even my dad made mistakes; he was hospitalized once because of it. 

I’m a novice and I may not be perfect, I’ve got the upper hand, right? My dad could give me all the advice I needed from his personal experience. I had a plan, and quite frankly, I was confident I’d do much better than all those other faceless bozos whose only accomplishments were pissing off SCP-035. I have a friendly and engaging personality. I’m considerate. I’m observant. (Hey, gotta shout yourself out for the feel-good once in a while when you spend most of your days working in a facility of blood and horrors.) 

“What’s the hold-up?” I asked, tapping my fingers on the door frame as I leaned against it. It was taking a while for the researchers to come back with the D-Class.

“Who knows,” the guard replied. “But you should be grateful you’ve got this extra time standing around. Expands your lifespan, which will be ending pretty shortly today.”

“Oh, please,” I said, laughing it off. I don’t know why he was trying to scare me. It really wasn’t working.

Right on cue, the automatic door slid open, through which three officers and two researchers came accompanied by a disheveled-looking brown-skinned man  with—along with many tattoos—the recognizable SCP inmate’s orange uniform, the words "CLASS D" written on it in large black letters. Under the letters was the number “3850.” He was held between two of the officers, his hands shackled in front of him. The D-Class threw a menacing glare at us, but behind his dark, sunken eyes, I also saw uneasiness and confusion.

“We ready?” I asked the researchers. They nodded. The officers released the D-Class from their grasp and pointed at the security trapdoor that led into the containment chamber, while the researchers headed over to the tech and radio control behind the glass.

“D-3850, approach the door,” the guard ordered, and the D-Class complied, probably because the officers were pointing more than enough MP5s at him.

“What’s in there?” the D-Class asked, to no avail.

“No questions,” the guard warned. “Just comply and we won’t shoot.”

I watched as the supervising researcher swiped a card, inserted a key into a slot, and then pressed a button that opened the trapdoor. With one final look behind him, the D-Class shuffled inside, and the door closed again quickly. I found it funny how the guard had said _we won’t_ _shoot_ as if that meant he would live if he complied. Yeah, sorry, buddy. You’re dead meat no matter what.

The handcuffs in this facility were remote-controlled, so that they could be taken off from a distance for a situation like this. The D-Class’s cuffs came undone and the supervising researcher said through the radio, “approach the glass box to the left.”

The D-Class kicked the cuffs aside and slowly headed for the glass box containing SCP-035.

Now would come the typical procedure. The D-Class found himself lured in closer by the SCP’s “telepathic waves” as we called them, which would then compel him to put the mask on. We weren’t quite yet exactly sure how all of it works, but that was part of the point of trials like these.

“I want to put it on . . .” the D-Class kept muttering to himself, inching toward the glass box. He was no more than a foot away from SCP-035. I looked back at the supervising researcher. He met my gaze and nodded before pressing a switch that opened one wall of the SCP’s glass box.

The following part was what I found hard to watch. The D-Class hastily grabbed the mask, and after a few seconds of admiring it in all its glory, held it up to his face.

SCP-035 immediately stuck itself on like glue. (We weren’t sure about this either. The black liquid that secretes from the mask might have some sort of adhesive property that activites upon wearing.)  The D-Class hardly had any time to react. His body violently convulsed, and then within seconds, went limp and crumpled to the ground.

I held my breath. All the staff watched, fixated on SCP-035 and its newest host.

Slowly, the body rose up, and the mask turned to face us.

“Foundation,” the SCP greeted. “Long time no see.”


	4. The Interview Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex begins the interview with SCP-035.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! I decided to just throw in what I have so far, so the end cuts off, but I'll update that when it's finished.

 

My dad isn’t exactly a hugger. Not really a touchy-feely kind of guy, maybe because of my mom’s absence—who knows. But  _ damn,  _ he just would not let me go right now.

“Dad. I need to go now,” I laughed.

“Right. Sorry.” He released me from his arms and looked into my eyes. “You got this, Alex,” he said. “Good luck, and don’t get possessed and murdered like a loser.”

“Gee, thanks, Dr. Watch,” I replied sarcastically, and I gave him a warm smile.

The supervising researcher gave me a thumbs up. “Good luck. You know the procedure.” One of the officers started the tape recorder that sat inside to capture the interview. He grabbed the radio as he stood behind the glass and announced into it, “Beginning SCP-035 interview number four. SCP Foundation, September 30, 2024. Interviewer Alexandria Watch will now enter the chamber. Opening chamber door.”

It was then that I realized I was more terrified than I’d like to admit. 

I’d been avoiding looking inside the room until now. I turned to the trap door and quickly slipped inside before it closed again. It was time to go talk to that D-Class’s dead-ass body. 

There it was, merely yards away from me. It watched me intently as I approached the interview table. The SCP sat calmly at one end of the table. The D-Class’s body seemed intact, other than the mask’s black ooze that was already dripping onto the orange uniform. 

I was about to introduce myself, when the SCP suddenly spoke.

“It’s not often they let people in here, you know. You must be a special one.” SCP-035 held out its hand, smiling (well, that was just the mask’s constant expression, but you get the idea). “They call me 035. And you are?”

It was strange hearing its voice in person; it wasn’t purely natural and human, but had a sort of deep reverberation to it, like the sound was echoing inside my head. 

“Call me Alex.” I stood there with my hands behind my back, ignoring its outreached hand, which would instantly kill me. “Come on, you didn’t think I would just waltz in here without reading your files, did you?” 

The SCP retracted its hand. “Of course not. But, it was worth a try. Sit down, sit down!” It gestured to my seat. I sat down and lay the papers in front of me. My hands were shaking; I took a deep breath and tried to still them. I needed to be calm and practical the whole way through. 

I’d actually done a lot more than read the files. I watched every interview tape and read every termination test log. Every declassification and all its known history. I knew all the information we had about the thing—which, yeah, isn’t much—and all that had been left for me to infer on my own. But the whole reason I chose to interview 035 out of all of the Keter-class SCPs capable of speech was because of the amount of experience my dad had with it, all the advice he was able to give me. My life kind of depended on it. Plus, even if it was a ruse, this SCP was admittedly  _ way  _ more amiable than the others. If you’re going to interview a dangerous anomaly, at least make it fun, right?

“Alright!” I began with a touch of cheeriness. “Pleased to be working with you, 035. Let’s keep the interview friendly and it’ll be through in no time, shall we? I just ask for the clearest answers you can give. You know the drill.”

SCP-035 folded its hands under its chin in an equally cheerful manner. “Of course. I don’t mind the company as long as  _ you  _ do this thing right in return. But I’m not worried about you! You’re Watchie’s daughter, right? Hmm…” It seemed to peer at me, leaning forward and shifting to look at my face from different angles as if that helped it “see into me” better, and my sudden headache told me that, my suspicions correct, it was literally entering my mind for a look. (I tried not to reflect on that disturbing thought too much.) “You must be just as intelligent as him. Though, I imagine, less touchy. More imaginative. Maybe a better sense of humor. Certainly more visually appealing.”

“Oh. Thank you.”  _ Sorry, dad _ . 

“Don’t mention it, dear.”

I wasn’t sure if that was manipulation or genuine flattery. This was going to be tough. The small-talk had already dragged on longer than needed, and we only had so much time as the host would only last so long, but my number one rule for this interview—for both myself and the supervising researcher—was to  _ never  _ interrupt SCP-035. I’d seen how that can make it react, and being the cause of a rage-induced containment breach wasn’t on my bucket list. Despite that, I had to be time-conscious. If The D-Class host’s body expired before the interview was over, SCP-035 would just see that as an excellent excuse to take me instead. Or… worse could happen. I suppressed a shudder.

“Let’s get started. We don’t want poor Jerry here melting into a pile of black shit before we even ask the first question,” I said, gesturing to the host’s body.

I could just feel the researcher behind the glass fuming with annoyance at my insertion of crude humor, but SCP-035 laughed. “Oh, I like you already,” it said, pointing at me with a pair of finger guns.

_ Off to a good start,  _ I thought to myself.

“Right to it. The first question is pretty basic,” I said, looking down at the paper, and I read, “Aside from your telepathic abilities, when you possess a living person, are you capable of obtaining and using their five senses?”

“Yes,” SCP-035 answered with a nod. “If I can obtain some of their personality and memories, I can certainly do so much as use their senses. Although they aren’t useful for much… I can’t recall ever having the need to  _ taste  _ something.” It looked down at “Jerry’s”—or  _ its _ —hands. “This body is technically mine now, until it dies, and the mind is mine, too. After all, the guy became brain dead the second he put me on, didn’t he?” 035 said this in such a sickly sweet way that I had to fight the urge to scoot my chair back and put some distance between ourselves.

“I see.” I jotted down,  _ Can use all five senses. Considers host’s mind and body to be its own.  _

The next question tied into the first one. “You mentioned before that back then in Ancient Greece, people who put you on  _ didn’t  _ immediately become brain dead, and that you had a particular conscious host with whom you worked together with in theater. Could you explain the details? What dictated how long people had to live once they put you on and how did these circumstances change to become what they are today?”

“Big load of questions,” 035 mused.

“Sorry.”

“Well, I can’t explain the  _ magic  _ of it. I wasn’t any different back then from today. As I’m sure you already know, the state of mind and body of the host dictates how long it takes them to expire. It’s simple: The people I worked with back then were ancient legends; brilliant-minded, masterful actors, brevity in wit and soul, flourishing in health from the food-plentiful lands of golden Greece! Of  _ course _ they took decades to expire! Not like these corrupted, frail prisoners you give me here.” SCP-035 sighed wistfully. “That’s all I can tell you. Next question!”

I was a bit disappointed, but I noted some things down, and decided not to question further on that subject. For all we knew, 035 could  _ choose  _ how long the host took to expire. I doubted that after thousands of years the thing didn’t even know how its own “magic” worked. But for now, I had to go along with the SCP’s request.

“In a past interview, you described to us the process of your ‘evolution’ and how you obtain pieces of the personality of each of your hosts to collectively build your own personality. Can you elaborate on this?”

SCP-035 seemed to think for a moment. “I have some control over what information I can accept or reject from the brain, but it mostly depends upon the period of time I’ve been attached to the host.”

“So . . . the man from Ancient Greece. You were together for over a decade. Does that mean you’ve inherited nearly his entire personality?”

“Precisely!” 035 replied. “Well, you know, I’m not a  _ copy  _ of him. I’ve got my own quirks and interests! But you are correct. I don’t get much from the few hours with these sacrifices you give me. Maybe except for some anger issues. And the occasional disturbing thoughts and images that seem to pop out of nowhere.”

“Right . . . Uh, sorry about that. I’m sure you understand, under the circumstances.”

“Do I?” it asked, rather skeptically.

I panicked inside.  _ Get it together, Alex. You can’t upset this thing so early into the interview. SCP-035 isn’t afraid to cause testing termination. Or, you know. Your own death. _

I skimmed the list of questions, eager to move on, but another thought was nagging me at the back of my mind. 


End file.
